


V is for Vixen

by petroltogo



Category: The Vampire Diaries & Related Fandoms, The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Also Vampires Suck At Staying Under The Radar, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But There Is A Lot Of Tricky Backstory At Work Here, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical Underage Drinking, Caroline Is A Detective, Caroline Is So Done With Everyone's Shit, Competent Caroline, Drama, Everyone Has Issues, F/M, Frequent Law-Breaking, Lots of Minor Character Death, Mentions of Rape, Morally Ambiguous Character, Season 01 AU, Slow Burn, Smart Caroline, So Much High School Drama, Thanks To Compulsion But What Else Is New, This Is Not Bashing Elena And Bonnie, cursing, mentions of consent issues, veronica Mars fusion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 05:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13920111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petroltogo/pseuds/petroltogo
Summary: ”My life: a shitty crossover between Sherlock Holmes, Dracula and High School Musical 2."In Caroline’s place Veronica is born. Witty, smart and with a knack for solving mysteries, hobby detective Veronica Forbes is quickly drawn into the bloody mess that is life in Mystic Falls when she investigates Vicky Donovan’s disappearance. How would the plot change if the dizzy blonde wasn't so dizzy after all?





	1. V is for Vocation

**Author's Note:**

> Another huge project I've been wanting to write forever. I'm really excited to be finally posting the first part! This is a rewrite of the first season (and, because of my undying love for the Originals, probably later seasons as well) with a slightly different Caroline at work. Sort of unacknowledged Veronica Mars fusion. Anything the character Caroline Forbes influenced might not have happened or happened very differently. Don't take anything for granted.
> 
> Btw just to be clear: I love Caroline. I adore her. She's a great character with great development and I don't think she was ever "just the dizzy blonde" at all. I replace her with Veronica not because I don't like her but because Caroline is the sherif's daughter- it's the position that fits the best. Just so we're clear on that.

 

> " _Some of us aren't meant to belong. Some of us have to turn the world upside down and and shake the hell out of it until we make our own place in it_."
> 
> —Elizabeth Lowell

**[** Mystic Falls | November 2nd, 2009 | Monday | Morning **]**

The problem with living in a small, backwards, sad excuse of a town is that you know everyone and their grandfather. Or perhaps the actual problem is that everyone and their grandfather knows  _you_.

You went on a date with that cute guy from second period chemistry? Your tatter-tale neighbour's sister probably served you the coffee. You tried your hand at a little harmless underage drinking? Your mother's best friend probably stumbled upon you when she cleared out the house.

You ask around about what happened to you last Saturday night? You're known as the town's slut before the sun goes down.

And when your name is Veronica Forbes and you're not only a part of the  _oh so_  admirable Founding Families— a title that totally deserves the capital letters, just ask Mrs. Lockwood—but also happen to be the local sherif's daughter, well. Your mere  _existence_  is just asking for trouble. If you have the audacity to actually have a life, may god have mercy on your soul, because this town's inhabitants definitely won't.

Trust me. I know.

I  _am_  Veronica Forbes after all.

I'm the kid with the gay father who had a scandalous affair with another man and left my mom and me when I was fifteen, destroying not only my mother and our family, but also the christmas holidays in the process. Anybody wondering who won the Parent of the Year award in '07?

Of course, with my mom being  _Sherif Elizabeth Forbes_ , the news of the divorce were all over the town before I had gotten off the phone with my best friends. That's just Mystic Falls for you. Nobody has the faintest clue what's going on, but  _everyone_  has an opinion about it. And once they've judged you, you'll never get rid of that stamp on your head. It doesn't matter how often you shower, there are some things water just can't wash off.

Don't get me wrong, the harsh crash and burn of my parents' marriage had it's good points too. For one thing, I learned the hard way that blood isn't always thicker than water. The people you love can disappoint you. They can leave you behind, and all you can do is get used to the empty spaces and move on with your life.

The other thing this whole affair has taught me is not to care what people think. It's kind of inevitable when your home town consists of nothing but gossiping hags. I learnt to deal with it. I always deal with it.

Turns out that lesson was a lot more valuable than I ever expected it to be. Because when my world fell apart when I was fifteen, I had no way of foreseeing that being the sad remains of a failed relationship would one day be one of the more flattering things I would be known for.

Life is funny that way. In a very bitter, dark chocolate kind of way.

But even without getting into the boring details, it's safe to say that mom and I have two of the more colourful reputations around here. Especially considering we are technically part of the high society—or as close as Mystic Falls gets to having a high society. That's the nice thing about being a part of the Founding Families. It's a hereditary privilege that can't be revoked.

I can't say the same about mom's job, but with her competence and her legacy backing her up, I seriously doubt they would have dared removing her from her post for a broken marriage. Then again, these people value their spotless image above all else. Quite possibly the only difference between Mystic Falls and Manhattan's Upper East Side is the current lack of Gossip Girls around here. And while that particular comparison might be an exaggeration, it isn't completely unreasonable.

The scandals that have haunted my family—though, not counting the first one, they've really centred a lot more around me than my mom, and when I say  _a lot_  I mean  _one hundred per cent_ —over the last two years have made me cautious. An uninformed outsider might go so far as to call me paranoid, but thanks to my mother's job I have absolutely no illusions about the other inhabitants of Mystic Falls. Trust me when I say that, if anything, I'm still not cautious  _enough_.

Besides most of the changes I've made in my life aren't even that excessive. Yeah, I've forced mom to install a new security system—not that it took much to convince her to begin with—and set up some standard surveillance cameras, but nothing over the top. And so what if I'm careful to always lock the door behind me and keep my curtains shut at all times?

I of all people know how much you can learn through simple observation. Hell, most of the time  _I'm_  the one spying through the windows. If anyone knows what they're talking about, it would be me! Although I prefer the term investigating. It sounds much more professional, and less like a creepy stalker, who can't get his kick from the vast supply of internet porn like every other perverted asshole.

Not that I care what other people think about me, of course.

As per usual, the kitchen is empty. Mom tends to leave before the sun rises—should you ever bother to look up the term 'married to their job', you'd find a picture of my mother right next to it—but there is a yellow sticker pinned onto the fruit bowl, wishing me a good day and reminding me—yet again—to be careful.

Right. Because there is nothing more dangerous in a teenager's life than High School.  _Honestly_. Sure, for the average girl's self-esteem and sense of worth that assessment might be true, but I don't think that's what my mom has in mind. I  _seriously_  doubt she's worried about my confidence of all things.

Still, the mere fact that the woman, who knows me better than anyone else, felt the need to write this note makes me narrow my eyes in suspicion. My mother has always been a better-safe-than-sorry kind of person—it comes with the job description—but the countless warnings this semester are getting  _a little_  out of hand. I'm old enough to know better than to follow strangers to their white van because they promise me candy, thank you very much.

To be honest, these constant reminders have been toying the line between 'justified, paternal worry' and 'suspicious behaviour' for a while now. Pity I don't have the time to analyse my mother's motivations right now. For the moment the Enigma of Elizabeth Forbes will have to wait, I can't be late for trigonometry again or Miss Vance is really going to kill me—or worse, call my mom.

So I put the matter out of my mind, for the time being at least, and the sticker between the pages of my notebook. Never leave potential evidence behind, you never know when you might need it and all that.

_And this, ladies and gentlemen, is what happens when you spend your formative years being raised by a sherif._

Maybe—if doubtfully—I'm reading too much into this, but I trust my instincts. And said instincts are currently screaming at me that there's something fishy going on.

(More accurately, they are screaming at me to get the hell out of this town, but that is what they've been telling me for two years now, and I'm not going anywhere. I'm not letting myself be driven out of home town, by anyone. That isn't who I am.)

Well, my gut feeling and the suspicious disappearances that have been increasing with an alarming rate of late. Usually those cases end with a very bloody, very dead body. And as much faith as I have in my mom's abilities—it's a lot, trust me—she doesn't seem all that in control of the situation so far.

If things continue to go this way, there'll be a couple of personal bodyguards in my very near future. Which would be unfortunate. The effort it takes to get rid of your watchers every time you want to do something interesting just isn't worth the protection they may or may not offer in an emergency. Not to mention that the other students hardly need any more ammunition against me.

Which reminds me—I'm late for school. Again.

#

In many ways Mystic Falls is just like any other American high school. There are the expected and easily identified cliques that you would find in every TV show. The jocks and the cheerleaders are perhaps the most recognisable ones, and usually found near each other for whatever reason. Maybe because their clothes fit so nicely.

Then there are the stereotypical stoners who, like vampires, shy away from the daylight and, more often than not, sneak off to their secret hideout—the one everybody knows about. There is the popular crowd where you find the kids of the rich, the beautiful and the influential. As far away from them as physically possible you'll find the nerds. In short: the usual.

Then, there is, of course, me.

Slamming the car door shut with more force than necessary and earning a few nervous glances in the process I stalk towards the one building in Mystic Falls I hate even more than the Lockwood Mansion—not an easy feat to accomplish, I can assure you.

Welcome to Mystic Falls High School, where another year and a half of hell are waiting for me. Whoever had the brilliant idea to invent a twelve year school system better hope I'll never catch up to him.

"Hey, V!" The loud, obnoxious voice of Tyler Grande-Sized-Asshole Lockwood sounds from somewhere behind me, interrupting my internal scheming.

[TL: Father is the Mayor. Mother organises the social functions. Member of a Founding Family. Football player. On-again-off-again boyfriend of VD.]

"We missed you at the party last Saturday! Let's face it, it's not a real party until Veronica Forbes does a strip tease on the couch table!"

Cue the too-loud laughter from his pathetic band of followers.

Of all the fucked-up, psychotic bastards Mystic Falls has to offer, Tyler is probably the worst. Not in the least because his dad is the town's major and the teachers literally let him run wild. If anyone in this town could get away with murder, it would be Tyler Lockwood, and he knows it. He makes sure to flaunt it too. It made breaking his nose that one time all the more satisfying.

"Lockwood, Moronic Interchangeable Face One and Two." I send them a smile dripping with distaste. "Do tell me, how does it feel to have to rely on drunk girls to pathetically get off with because your latest ex realised she could do better, and get herself someone who can actually  _perform_  to her satisfaction? A fifteen year old at that?"

I don't put much stock into rumours—with everything people say about me, that's kind of a given—but I'm certainly not above using them in my favour. Tyler's death glare—Snape's would have been more effective and I was immune to that dungeon bat's evil eye by the first half of the second movie—is worth it. No doubts about that.

Too bad one day not so many years ago someone taught the guy how to talk back. It would have spared me so much trouble if they hadn't.

"At least I have girlfriends! What about you, Forbes?" Lockwood spits my name out like a particularly vile insult. Too bad it's not poisonous. "Oh, I forgot."  _Sure you did_. "Nobody wants you, right? Even your friends got fed up with your attitude!"

I can literally feel the fake sweetness drain from my smile as my eyes turn frosty. Moronic Interchangeable Face Two shifts nervously. Good. Means I'm doing something right.

"Careful, Lockwood," I warn him. It's the only chance he's going to get. Tasering his sorry ass might just get me expelled, but damn, it's a price I'm willing to pay. "You  _really_  don't want to piss me off today."

"What, you're on your period or something?" Tyler mocks but he's backing off now, if slowly. For all his posturing, he's self-aware enough to know hitting a girl won't get him any points. Not even if that girl is me.

Sending the jackass a small wave and an accomplished smile that's going to bug him to no end, I turn my back on the tedious trio and walk towards my class room. There's one good thing about this unpleasant encounter: after the tiresome macho play, I'm almost looking forward to trig. Almost.

 _Congratulations, Tyler_ , I think as my smile turns vicious,  _you're on the list_.

#

After trig I head to biology which—unsurprisingly—turns out to be a complete waste of time. I couldn't care less about the different components of human blood, thank you very much. Not to mention that the whole blood group testing is a little too Twilight-esque for my taste. Honestly, what does it matter if the blood is A positive or O negative? All I need to know is who it belonged too, who spilled it, how and why. That's the questions mom gets paid to answer.

The scientific details fall under the jurisdiction of the forensic team. Of course, a place the size of Mystic Falls doesn't have a real forensic team, mind you. It's a part of the whole size-matters-conspiracy they want to indoctrinate our minds with. I mean, it's not like two thirds of those recent murders might have been solved if there were people around, who can do more than search for fingerprints like an excitable eight year old with a Toys'r'us detective kit.

But that's just Mystic Falls for you. Common sense is a rare good, as far as the residents are concerned. So is self-preservation for that matter.

Still, the local police department isn't useless. Not with mom there to kick their asses into the exact shade of purple that compliments her skin tone. Which reminds me, it's high time for a little mother-daughter family discussion. If I'm lucky I might even get my hands on some of her files; if only for my own peace of mind.

Especially the one of my late—violently so—history teacher, Mister Tanner.

Now don't get me wrong, I hated that bastard more than I hate Tyler Lockwood, and I've spent my fair share of daydreams fantasising about his death, but he was still my teacher. More importantly he was killed  _here_ , on the school grounds. Not somewhere out in the woods, like those hikers that disappeared a couple of weeks ago.

I didn't like Tanner, but I like a killer who ripped a man's throat out during a football game and  _got away with it_  even less.

Not that things couldn't have been worse.

Tanner could have been killed during one of those social functions I am obligated to attend, where the first thing people would have done, was pointing their collective finger at me. I'm not even sure if I'm flattered that people assume I'm capable of murder or insulted that they think I would get  _caught_. Yet no matter how many other students repeatedly threatened to suffocate Tanner in his sleep, the second he dropped dead my name would have been on the top of the list of potential suspects.

Scratch that. My name would have  _been_  the list.

Thankfully his mysterious attack happened during a football game. Me being who I am, I wouldn't have been caught dead at any school-spiritly-event. Ever. I would have probably been taken into custody regardless if I didn't have an air-tight alibi: I was eating dinner with my mom.

So yeah, I wasn't there when they found Tanner's body, and until now I haven't seen any reason to involve myself in that mess, but maybe it's time to change that. Who's to say that the next person who disappears is another faceless stranger or unbearable asshole?

I, for one, don't plan to have my year book photo plastered across the local newspapers. I look terrible in that picture, and I'm still certain Ethan Milton 'forgetting' to airbrush my red eyes was not a coincidence. Nor where the fifty dollars Ryan from the football team handed him later that day. Suffice to say their names have earned a permanent placing on the list.

Actually, most of this town just so happens to be on the list. But hey, what's life without a challenge?

Anyway, I'm working on it.

Which in hindsight was probably a mistake. Because if I had been paying closer attention to my surroundings I could have avoided another awkward encounter. I guess some days life just isn't on your side though, because here I am, innocently walking towards the gym and planning the destruction of my fellow classmates self-esteem, when I stumble straight into another girl, almost sending her crashing to the floor.

And my PE teacher tells me I need to work on my strength.

"Oh, I'm sorry-"

"Sorry, I didn't-" Whatever meaningless apology was initially on the tip of my tongue dies a very abrupt death in the back of my throat, when the girl I've knocked down gets back onto her feet again, and I am faced with a way too familiar person.

 _Hello unwanted past, nice of you to catch up with me every once in a while_.

Because there, in the middle of the hallway are two of the closest things to Mean Girls Mystic Falls High has to offer. The girl I've run into is Bonnie Bennett.

[BB: Mother disappeared years ago. Father almost never around. Close relationship with her grandmother SB. Single.]

And standing right by her side, brown eyes wide open in shocked surprise is her best friend Elena Gilbert.

[EG: Parents died in a car accident this summer. One younger brother JG. Her legal guardian is her aunt JS. Member of a Founding Family. In a relationship with SS.]

Bonnie and Elena used to be my best friends. The key word, just in case you didn't catch it the first time, being  _used_   _to_. I really can't stress that part often enough.

"-see you there," I lamely finish my sentence after a very long moment of awkward silence. It's still more than either of them manage though, so I'll count it as a win. Of course, the moment the thought runs through my mind, Elena just has to open her mouth.

 _Nope. Forget it. I'm not in the mood to deal with this shit_.

I don't give her the chance to say anything. There is nothing  _Elena Gilbert_  could possibly say that I want to hear. Instead I turn on my heels and hurry into the opposite direction. That I won't make it to gym on time doesn't deter me in the slightest. Mom's just gonna have to deal with it.

#

 **[** Mystic Falls | November 2nd, 2009 | Monday | Midday **]**

As it turns out, gym is almost over by the time I get there, and the last minutes I'm present are spent apologising to the coach. Thankfully he is almost ridiculously uncomfortable with the topic of menstruation, and explaining I was suffering from terrible cramps ensures that he doesn't ask more questions than strictly necessary.

Besides my unplanned skipping got me out of the only class I share with Matt Donovan, another one of the very long list of former friends I'm not and probably never will be on speaking terms with again.

[MD: Father unknown. Mother careless and usually absent. One older sister VD. Busboy at the Grill. Football player. Ex-boyfriend of EG. Friend of TL.]

Not that I'm one to back down or run away—Mystic Fall would have only seen a cloud of dust from me otherwise—but sometimes avoidance is better than confrontation. Especially when you're already treading on thin ice with the principal, because you kneed a pretentious jackass into the groin.

(If nothing else the football team—Tyler Lockwood being a notable exception—leaves me alone now, so I'd call it a win.)

Of course there is nothing  _confrontational_  about Matt. He is one of those rare, genuinely nice people, who always gets along with everyone. Everyone except me. I live to defy people's expectations. There are a lot of upsides that come with it.

For example, not having a social status to speak of means nobody expects me—or invites me for that matter, not that it would stop me if I wanted to attend—to turn up on every we-are-so-badass party with the exact same wasted kids. Yeah,  _so_  not missing that. Not to forget the fun it was to run from the cops when they finally turned up. The sherif's daughter could hardly be caught drinking, could she?

Still, it's not like the life I had back then was all bad. I loved being popular, I loved the friends I had, and I would have died for Elena and Bonnie. And on some days, days like today, I almost regret throwing it all away.

Which is my excuse for why I'm spending my lunch break watching the table I used to sit at. It's funny—in a very bitter way—how little our old table has changed over the last year. Almost like they don't even notice the metaphorical empty spot among them, the seat to Elena's left that Dana's occupying now. The seat that used to be  _mine_.

Elena and Bonnie have their heads bent closely together in a not at all subtle, let's-subtly-discuss-some-deadly-secret-without-anyone-noticing pose that makes me want to roll my eyes. So I do. Not like anybody's paying me any attention.

Honestly, even after all these months it baffles me how those two manage to get anything done without me. Every tense muscle is practically screaming 'trouble' at the rumour mill and Elena's unusually strong make-up isn't fooling anyone.

Next to the plotting duo sits Stefan Salvatore, the newest addition to Mystic Falls High. I don't known much about him—yet—except for a few obvious facts. But the silence surrounding him is suspicious in itself.

[SS: Member of a Founding Family. Good-looking. Football player. In a relationship with EG.]

This is Mystic Falls not New York City, and if there's a new resident, his stepfather's secret affair five years ago in Europe should have been common knowledge by the end of his first day. But I guess that's the nice thing about having a sherif as a mom. On a rainy Sunday afternoon, when all your friends ditch you because they've got something better to do, they sit you down and tell you how to go about examining a crime scene.  _Absence of evidence_ , as mom likes to remind me every few cases, _isn't evidence of absence_.

I need to keep an eye on new guy. Nobody causes trouble in  _my_  town without me knowing all about it.

Slowly, but not so slowly that it will raise suspicions, I lift my favourite camera and snap a quick picture of my ex-table. I don't have anything else going on at the moment, I might as well start my research today after school.

"Hey…Nika."

I jerk in surprise as a quiet voice says my name. Only to come face to face with the last—or, at least, very low on the list of possibilities—person I would have expected to stand behind my chair, uneasily swaying from one foot to the other.

Chancing one last glance at the people I gave up on a long time ago, I turn around fully and observe my unexpected company.

"Well, this certainly is a surprising turn of events," I note drily, taking great delight in the grimace that briefly crosses his features. I gesture at an empty seat on my table. "Sit down, will you? I'm don't bite. Much."

It's almost sad how easily people are intimidated by a petite, blonde, ex-cheerleader, but I'd be lying if I said they don't have a reason to be afraid. Leaning back in my cheap plastic seat, I watch with open amusement as he nervously squirms in his place.

"So, what can I do for you, Jeremy Gilbert?"

[JG: Parents died in a car accident this summer. Legal guardian is his aunt JS. One older sister EG. Fifteen.]

Jeremy Gilbert. Rumoured to be a junkie. Rumoured to deal drugs. Rumoured to have an affair with Vicky Donovan. Rumoured to be constantly drunk or high or both. Rumoured to fail most of his classes. Rumoured to have gotten into multiple fights with Tyler Lockwood. In short, Jeremy Gilbert is perhaps the only person at this school with a more colourful reputation than I have. And that's quite an achievement.

Our shared status as social outcasts could have brought us closer together, but, well. The truth is, the only thing that brought Gilbert and me together,  _ever_ , was the one thing that completely tore us apart. The last time the two of us talked was almost a year ago, only days after my fall-out with Elena and Bonnie. It wasn't a fun conversation, and we've been on a stand-still ever since.

Which makes this little get-together even more interesting.

Gilbert hesitates, and I can read in his eyes that he's seriously considering jumping out of this chair and running back to whatever hole he crawled out of. I can see in the tense set of his jaw that he won't though. For all our distance, I can still read Gilbert like an open book.

But what interests me even more is his appearance. His clothes are wrinkled but clean. His eyes aren't suspiciously red, and he doesn't smell of weed or an insane amount of cologne designed to cover said smell. There are tiny crumbs of yellow paint under his fingernails, where black nail polish used to be. In fact, nothing in his appearance supports the stories I've heard about him since his parents' death a couple of months ago.

That's not to say he looks good because he doesn't. He's too pale, there are dark shadows under his eyes and he seems—jumpy. And I doubt it's because he's afraid I'll give him the same treatment I gave Nick Cooper from the football team. The kid has always been too confident for his own good.

"I need your help." Gilbert forces the words through his lips like they cause him physical pain—actually, they just might. I certainly hope they do.

"Really?" I drawl. "You want my help? What did you get yourself into, that you need the help of a _jealous tramp that needs to get over herself_  and  _stop blaming others for her own mistakes_?"

Like I said. Our last conversation wasn't fun.

Gilbert lowers his eyes for a moment, though I can't quite tell if it's because he feels guilty for what he said back then or because what he did is going to complicate things for him now. Frankly, I'm not sure I want to know the answer.

"Look," he straightens his back then, clearly having come to the decision to get this over with. The kid has guts, I'll admit that. Unfortunately he doesn't have much else going for him. "It's about Vicky."

And, well. That confirms one of the rumours at least.

[VD: Father unknown. Mother careless and usually absent. On-again-off-again girlfriend of TL. Potential girlfriend of JG. Drug addict. Waitress at the Grill. Current status: missing]

"Listen Gilbert, I don't know if you heard but I'm not exactly the person to go to for relationship advice." I snort at the mere thought, an ugly sound that makes Gilbert wince. "As for the tramp part, I doubt  _Vicky Donovan_  of all people needs my help in that department. You're on your own. Now if you excuse me, break is almost over, and while there are certain things worth getting a late pass for,  _you_  definitely aren't one of them."

With that I push my chair back and stand, staring down my nose at Gilbert as I sling my bag around my shoulder. The words are harsh, but I don't regret throwing them at him. I'm not a forgiving person, haven't been, even  _before_. It's just not in my nature. It helps that Jeremy Gilbert is about the last person I want to do a favour, and he most definitely knows that. The fact that he still asked makes walking away so much more satisfying.

"Nika, wait!"

Of course, like all Gilberts, Jeremy is a persistent little bugger. Not that his cry stops me. Not until the kid gets a hold of my arm at least. The second he touches me, I whirl around so fast he has no chance to react and I kick him in the shin—hard—and twist my wrist out of his grip in a move my dad thought me when I was nine.

"Don't ever call me that name again, Gilbert!" I hiss, thick trails of rage uncurling from where they have slumbered deep within me, in that dark, concealed place, where I lock all my emotions away until I'm ready to deal with them. But once awakened, it takes me forever to box them back into their tightly controlled prison, and I can feel them now, spreading, growing, raging. Pulsing with the need to  _lash out_.

"I won't, I promise!" Gilbert holds his palms up defensively. "Just listen, please! I know you don't like me, okay? I know I have no right to ask for your help, I just—You're the only one I know who might be able to find her!"

I raise my eyebrows at the kid's unfairly impressive puppy eyes. They don't stop the desire to punch him, but they do remind me of how Gilbert used to look at me, back when he was just Elena's kid brother, always following us around like a puppy. And that memory is a lot harder to shake off than I'd like it to be. "I suppose it's true, flattery will get you everywhere," I mutter in annoyance, mostly at myself.

"Does that mean you'll do it?" Gilbert positively lights up at the prospect, meaning it's highly unlikely that this is a trick or a game. Then again, he might be a fantastic actor for all I know. I can't allow myself to underestimate him.

"It means I'll grant you an audience, where you'll be given the chance to convince me that  _Vicki Donovan_  of all people is worth my time." I make sure to convey how likely that outcome actually is.

Gilbert tenses a little at my words, but he bites his tongue in an effort not to argue. So he has some brain cells left after all. Interesting. He nods, face drawn into a mask of determination, and I read the silent 'whatever it takes' in that gesture.

"Meet me at my car after school," I order—I'm hardly going to ask  _Jeremy Gilbert_ anything—, "And don't make it obvious. I wouldn't want to cause a rift in the  _golden family_  after all." I make no effort to keep the sarcastic drawl from my voice.

Gilbert grimaces, probably imagining Elena's reaction, should she see the two of us together, and I almost sympathise with him. Almost.

Instead I brush past him before he has the chance to ruin my day any more than he already has. I might even make it to English on time for once.

#

 **[** Mystic Falls2nd of November, 2009 | Monday | Afternoon **]**

"So, let me get this straight," I start the engine the second Gilbert slips into the passenger seat. "You want me to find Vicki Donovan."

He nods. I resist the urge to hit him.

"Care to elaborate?" I ask through gritted teeth.

"She told me she needed to leave, get away from everything. The drugs, the people,  _me_." Gilbert laughs weakly, the sound not as bitter as I would have expected. "And I understand that, I just—"

Everyone who has ever set a foot into Mystic Falls understands that. It really sucks that Bitchy Donovan got out of this hellhole before I did. Not that I'm going to admit that.

"Because you love her and dream about some cheap Disney love reunion shit," I interrupt him instead.

"No." Gilbert blinks. I'm not sure who's more surprised by this confession, me or he himself. "I loved her but it's for the best. I'm happy for her, I'm ready to move on. I just want to know that she's fine, that she's happy, and not-"

"Whoring herself out on the streets for her next fix," I finish his sentence once it becomes obvious he won't say out loud what everyone else already thinks. This time he makes no move to correct me.

"So you just want to know where she is, not actually bring her back."

Which of course makes my job so much easier. Because how do you get a druggie back into the town she ran away from? Especially considering I'm not exactly well-muscled. When Gilbert nods affirmatively, I stop the car at the side of a random street and turn to face him fully. It's time to cut the chase and get down to business.

"Why me?" I shoot the question at him the way my mom usually speaks with suspects that are getting on her nerves. It's a very appropriate comparison. "Why ask me for help?"

It's a valid question. Even before the big fall-out Gilbert and I were never close. He was just my best friend's kid brother. Never more, never less. Besides I know for a fact that mom is already on the case. She ditched our Sunday family time to investigate dear Vicky's disappearance after all. And mom is good at her job. If there's a way for the police to find her, she will.

Gilbert bites his lip, hands restlessly drumming against his thigh. It's painfully obvious that he's uncomfortable, but I refuse to give him an easy out. For  _Jeremy Gilbert_  to approach me, there has to be more to the story than a run-away crush, that much I know for sure.

"You're good at what you do," Gilbert reluctantly admits, dark eyes looking everywhere except me. "I know the police is on the look-out, but they're just that, the police. They have other things to do. They're bound by laws and everything."

 _And you never let that stop you_.

The last part is left unsaid, but we both know it's true. I've done my friends— _ex_ -friends—too many questionable favours over the years. Everyone and their mother knows I don't take the laws as serious as the daughter of a sherif probably ought to. Then again, nobody ever outright asks how I get the things done that I do, so it's not like there's any incriminating proof.

"That might be true but there are other private investigators to hire," I reply, entirely unconvinced by his reasoning. Sure, none of those investigators can be found in Mystic Falls but Vicky isn't exactly here either, is she? Besides this is  _me_  and  _Gilbert_  we're talking about.

"Perhaps, but they don't know this town, they don't know  _Elena_ ," Jeremy snaps right back and, oh,  _now_  we're getting somewhere. It's all in the way he stresses his sister's name, not quite in anger but rather frustration.

"Trouble in paradise?" I try and fail to keep the snarky comment at bay—alright, so I don't try very hard. Sue me.

Gilbert glowers at me, but that's an answer in itself. "She doesn't want me looking for Vicky, she just wants me to  _let her go_ ," he mocks, doing a fairly good impression of Elena in one of her overprotective moods. "She doesn't get that I don't want Vicky  _back_ , I just want her  _safe_."

"So you've come to me because you think the chance of pulling one over Elena is enough for me to ignore my intense dislike for you." It's a statement, not a question, because we both know it's the truth.

"Isn't it?" Gilbert challenges me confidently.

I glare straight back at him.

There are few things that annoy Elena more than someone messing with her baby brother. And as much as I hate the younger Gilbert, I love the idea of annoying her even more.  _Damn it_.  _Damn Elena. And damn that smug little bastard that calls himself her brother straight to hell._

"You better start saving your pocket money, because I'm going to rip you off like you've  _never_  been ripped off before," I hiss and continue before Jeremy's lips have the chance to form that satisfied smile I know all too well. "And you owe me. Three favours, you don't ask questions, you keep your mouth shut, you just do what I tell you and never mention it again to anyone. Are we clear?"

Gilbert hesitates for just a moment, proving once more that he's smarter than his grades make him out to be. He knows I'm going to use these favours and he knows he's not going to like them. Too bad, so sad. I'm not a good samaritan. I don't help other's out of the goodness of my heart.

"Deal." He offers his hand and I only hesitate for a moment, mainly just to make him feel uncomfortable. It's not like I'm going to back out of this, not with such a tempting offer.

Besides Jeremy Gilbert or not, this is what I do. Finding missing persons, discovering the skeletons' in other people's closet, putting my nose where it doesn't belong.  _This_  is what I'm good at.

"Deal." I shake his hand. "Now get the hell out of my car."

As I watch Jeremy scramble to comply, I can't suppress a small smirk from growing on my lips. Sometimes, and only sometimes, it's damn good to be Veronica Forbes.

**End of Chapter I**


	2. Vestige

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which parents are overprotective at the most inconvenient of times, Veronica doesn't believe in coincidences, popular friends are hard to come by when you're a social outcast, gossip can in fact be helpful and Damon Salvatore enters the playing field.

> _Lots of hurtful secrets are better off kept. The problem is that people find it so hard to keep them._
> 
> _—Liane Moriarty_

**[** Mystic Falls 2nd of November, 2009 Monday Evening **]**

I stare tiredly at my textbook, too exhausted to even glare. It's only seven thirty, but I've spend most of Sunday night watching Connor Brodley play Fifa because his paranoid girlfriend thought he was cheating on her. I doubt his PlayStation was what she had in mind, but the only thing I care about are the hundred bucks she payed me. Honestly, the people in this town have way too much money to spend on useless shit—and me.

The beeping sound of our alarm system finally breaks my waning concentration. But before I have time to reach for the gun mom keeps hidden in the kitchen drawer, the aggravating noise quietens.

"Mom?" I call out, although it's not really a question. My mother is the only one besides me who knows the code for the system. We haven't even told Dad. He doesn't live here anymore. He can ring the bell like everyone else.

I don't get an answer immediately, but after a few moments of silence I hear the familiar pattern of heavy footsteps, dragged down by the boots she likes to complain about. A moment later a tall, blonde woman enters the kitchen, still dressed in the sherif uniform, her phone pressed to her ear.

She sends me a small smile and mouthes what I assume is a soundless, "Sorry".

I can't help shaking my head at her. Elizabeth Forbes—Liz if you're a friend—is a great mother, don't get me wrong. I love her and I know she loves me just as much. But she loves her job too, and if there's one thing being a sherif's daughter has taught me, it's that criminals don't keep the usual Monday to Friday nine to five schedule. The bad doesn't sleep—and neither do the people hunting it down.

Still, I can't complain. Mom really tries. And besides I know how this business works all too well. I'm a part of it myself after all. That's probably what makes us so close, despite the late night calls and the countless rescheduling of planned family trips; we understand each other. We play the same game by the same set of rules.

"No, no, Jack, I've left the copies on your desk. Just make sure Nate has done everything by the book, let him figure out the rest on his own. I'll be back tomorrow, I just need a few hours of sleep. Now go kick his ass for me, and don't call unless the town's burning down around you."

I snap my book shut, it's not like I'll get anything done right now anyways. Instead I get two plates from the cupboard while Mom opens the refrigerator. I expertly dance around her to get the cutlery, then take the orange juice she hands me. This is our routine, comfortable and easy to fall back into.

I suppress a mocking grin when Mom rolls her eyes at something the officer on the phone tells her.

"No," she sends me an exasperated look over the shoulder, "That was a  _joke_ , Jack. Yes. Okay. See you tomorrow."

"Idiots," she mutters the moment she ends the call—though there is no mistaking the fondness in her voice—and places the cold leftover pizza from yesterday on the table.

"What else is new?" I ask, and we both share a small laugh over my dig at the local police force. It's not really funny though.

This town probably wouldn't exist anymore if my mother wasn't there to do a decent job—and she can only do so much on her own. The police station used to be in a better position once, but over the last year or so things have slowly gone downhill. Three of the older, more experienced officers retired in short succession, two because of old age, one because of health issues. A promising deputy died in a car accident shortly after the elder Gilberts' funeral.

The open positions have been filled with younger people that aren't yet used to their new responsibilities, have trouble to ascertain their authority, and lack the experience and know-how their predecessors possessed. The recent increase of dead and disappearing people doesn't help matters.

"You look tired," I can't help but note.

I know the last few months have been stressful on mom, but right now she looks more than just exhausted. She looks dead on her feet. Dark circles under her eyes, wax-coloured skin, and the sad excuse of a smile she gives me ain't fooling nobody.

"Long day," is the noncommittally response, followed quickly by the usual, "How was school?"

I raise my eyebrows at the question. It must be worse than I thought. Mom doesn't usually use such lame attempts to divert my attention.

"I tripped three Football players, stole some freshman's lunch money, and had wild sex with the School's drug dealer in a broom closet. So just the usual." I shrug and take a bite of the pizza. It tastes as disgusting as cold pizza always does, but I can hardly complain. I know how to work the stove after all, I'm just too lazy for my own good.

"I see." Mom's lips twitch into a smile that looks a lot more energetic than her previous one. "Was it any good?"

I send her a mock-thoughtful look. "Doable. And I get a discount now, so I figure, it was worth it."

"That's my girl."

For a moment I consider asking her about her own day, but we both know I only do polite conversation when I want something, so I decide against it. Not like I don't already know the answer. It was stressful, thanks to everyone's incompetence, but no one has turned up dead so far, so it hasn't been a complete loss. The town would have already been abuzz with the news, had that been the case.

No, it's better to save us both some time and get straight down to business.

"Mom, can I take a look at Vicky Donovan's file?"

Alright, maybe I could have been a bit less direct, but I certainly didn't expect mom to choke on her juice in response. It's not even such an unusual question from me. Over the years I've probably spent more time buried in this town's criminal files than some of the deputies that are working the office. I like to think that it comes with the territory of being my mom's full-time daughter and part-time secretary, but honestly? I'm just too curious for my own good.

"I wasn't aware that you were close with her," Mom finally replies, after she has gotten her coughing under control—and doing an abysmal job of pretending that nothing just happened. Really, her reaction would have tipped off even Officer Jack Sterling that there's something wrong—well, most likely. Not sure what this guy's doing in the department in the first place, he takes 'oblivious' to a whole new level.

"I wasn't." No use in lying about it, I've never made a secret of my dislike for the girl. But Vicky left me alone, so I was more or less indifferent to her existence, and later her disappearance. And doesn't that just make me sound like a stone-cold bitch.

My mother's expectant stare makes it clear that she needs more than that. I can't say I blame her. "Jeremy Gilbert asked me to look into it," I add, like that explains everything. It doesn't.

"And you agreed out of the goodness of your heart." Mom makes no effort to conceal the doubt in her voice. Over the course of the last few months I've been  _anything but_  indifferent to the Gilbert's existence, and not in a good way. Of course she knows that, she's my mom. And at the time I desperately needed someone to rant to.

"He pays me and it's gonna piss Elena off," I state bluntly. No use in hiding my main motivation. Mom might not be at her best right now, but she's still a cop. And my mom. She'll figure it out sooner rather than later.

My mom closes her eyes for a moment, a strange mixture of resignation and determination crossing her face. When her gaze meets mine a moment later—two pairs of eyes in the same shade of deep blue—her exhaustion is gone, suppressed, leaving nothing but the iron will I've always admired behind.

"I know you want to help, Veronica. And I'm proud of you, of the things you're doing. You'll make a fine detective one day. But this is not the case of a cheating boyfriend or disappearing earrings in the changing rooms. The Donovan file is classified to the public and that  _includes_  you."

"But-"

"No buts, Veronica!" Mom interrupts me, her voice sharp. "Look, a young, attractive, drug-addicted girl disappears? I've had dozens of these cases on my desk over the years, and they rarely have a happy ending. You're only seventeen and cases like these almost  _always_  end ugly. I don't want you involved in that. Call Jeremy and tell him we're doing what we can and that you're out."

I swallow. Mom almost never uses that I'm-an-adult-and-you're-not-so-you-listen-to-me-now tone with me, but when she does, she means business. She's serious about this, and she's not going to change her mind, that much is clear.

" _Veronica_." She's waiting for me to accept her words, her explanation. And it makes sense in a way, I get where she's coming from. The chances of Vicky being alright and fine and happy are—abysmal. She's my mother for god's sake, of course she wants to protect me from that.

"Alright. Fine. I'll call him tomorrow," I promise reluctantly.

Mom looks at me for a moment longer, as if trying to judge whether or not I'm lying to her. But I'm not, I'm really not, and finally she nods in satisfaction. And promptly yawns.

"You should go to bed, mom. You left Jack on his own at the station, you'll need all the energy you can get." I can't help but laugh at the mental image. I wouldn't trust Jack Sterling with a goldfish if I had one, never mind a police station.

Mom shakes her head in rueful agreement. "Yes, I suppose you're right. Don't stay up too long either, sweetheart. You have school tomorrow."

"Don't remind me," I grimace at the thought, and we exchange a small smile before Mom finally stands and makes to leave the kitchen. She pauses in the doorway though, and I know what she's going to say before she even has the chance to open her mouth.

"I love you, Veronica." Her eyes soften. "More than I love arresting murderers."

My smile widens at the familiar words. They might sound odd to other people, but to me they are a promise. One my mother hasn't broken once in the last seventeen years.

"Love you too, Mom. More than I loved breaking Ryan Johnson's testicles."

That at least earns me an amused chuckle. And I'm not going to lie, if I was Harry Potter, the memory of Johnson's face would be enough to create a Patronus.

#

 **[** Mystic Falls 3rd of November, 2009 Tuesday **]**

"Yes?" Gilbert answers his cell with about as much enthusiasm as one might exude when serving jury duty, and the thought of being an annoyance without even trying puts a smile on my face.

"It's me," I reply, the amusement in my voice audible even to my own ears. "Can you talk?"

The question makes me feel a bit like I'm seven again and pretending to be a spy. I forgot how much fun sneaking around like this is.

Gilbert draws in quick breath of surprise. "Yeah," he mutters over the voices in the background, "just a sec."

There's the whooshing sound of a door opening and closing—going by the ringing noise that accompanies the move and the fact that it's still early in the afternoon, he's probably at the Grill—and when Gilbert speaks again his voice is a great deal sharper, more aware. "Have you found her?"

"No." I roll my eyes at the guy's impatience. Really, if it was so easy to find Vicky, the police would've done it already. "But I need you to do me a favour."

I pull my key out of my jacket and unlock the door, absently deactivate the alarm. Mom isn't home yet, one look into the empty driveway has told me as much. Which is why this is the ideal time to do what I should have done weeks ago.

"Already?" Gilbert asks, incredulous and perhaps a little bit nervous.

I roll my eyes again. Doing it so often can't be healthy, but really, this guy doesn't give me much of a choice. "Not that kind of favour. This is a favour you're going to do yourself, because if you don't, my investigation will end very fast and very ugly."

Throwing the keys into the key bowl, I slip out of my sneakers and walk down the hallway, to the last door on the left. My mom's office.

"What do you mean by that?" Gilbert's demand pulls my attention back to the on-going conversation. Right.

"I need you to go down to the station and harass the first officer you find." God, let it be Sterling. Please,  _please_  let it be Sterling. That would serve the incompetent idiot right, for making mom's job harder than it already is. "Demand more details, ask what they're doing about Vicky, pressure them, demand they call you if they find anything. Just, you know, make a stink. Draw attention."  _Convince my mom that I've backed out of our agreement_.

"But- why?" he asks confused.

 _Because my mom doesn't want me anywhere near that case, not that I'm gonna tell you that. It'd be like handing a loaded gun to a very angry toddler, who holds a serious grudge against you_.

"Because," I drawl, infusing as much annoyance as possible into the word, "the more of a scene you make, the more the officers will feel pressured to be seen doing something productive. I know you hired me and not the cops, but it's not an either or case we're talking about here. Besides it never hurts to get more information, no matter where it comes from."

"Why don't you just ask your mother?" Gilbert questions, sounding much more suspicious than he has any right to be. Damn it. Why can't he just be the oblivious pothead the rumour mill insists he is?

"Believe it or not," I snap back, "but my mother isn't a huge fan of discussing details of serious cases with her underage daughter, especially not when it involves people I personally know. There's such a thing as a right for privacy too, even if the residents of this town don't believe in it."

There's a rustle of breath on the other line. Knowing Gilbert, probably an exasperated sigh. I refuse to sympathise, he knew exactly who he was getting involved with. And a sigh is good. It means he's resigned himself to the inevitable.

"Alright, fine, whatever," Gilbert growls and hangs up before I get the chance to say anything else. I'm almost impressed by the immaturity of that move. Not that I've had anything to add, I simply would've liked to hang up on Gilbert first. Oh well.

I've got better things to do than listen to him whine anyways. Like breaking into mom's office, for example. After all, I promised that I'd call Gilbert today, I never said anything about staying away from the Donovan case.

#

As the sherif of the town—no matter how small—mom keeps quite a few handy toys at home, in the locked drawers of her office. So handy, in fact, that I've made it my personal mission to get my hands on the keys of said drawers. Money does't grow on trees, and those are the kind of resources I can't in good conscience allow to waste away in some stuffy back room. Besides I'm sure mom would be happy to know how much attention I payed her lectures all those times she told me about the most common hiding places for keys and passwords.

But today that isn't the reason I'm here. Today I head straight for the second drawer from the top, the one I've never bothered to crack before. Why would I? Mom's work was never a mystery to me. She has always been more than willing to discuss her cases, her theories, her solutions. In a broad, no names or other identifying information way of course, but that wasn't what I was interested in back then anyways. And later I learned how to figure that part of the equation out on my own.

Just because I never cared though, doesn't mean I don't know where she keeps the files of the cases that bother her enough that she can't let them go, even when she's at home. And considering we're talking about the disappearance of a girl my age, a girl my mom has known since birth, I have absolutely no doubt that Vicky Donovan's file is a part of that stash.

Unlocking the drawer—really, sticking the key to the bottom of the stapler is such a clichéd move—does indeed reveal the expected file. In fact, it's right on the top of the pile. It's also about as thick as I expected. The elder Donovan hasn't been known for leading a law-abiding life.

Unfortunately, that means I don't have time to read the entire thing now, and I'm pretty damn sure my mom would notice if this file in particular suddenly went missing. So instead I take a picture of every page with my phone. That way I'll be able to examine the information later, in detail.

As soon as I'm finished, I put the file back into the exact same position I found it and start to close the drawer again, when something makes me pause. The drawer is full. As in filled to the brim with files. And whilst mom has a bad habit of bringing her work home, she doesn't store those files here any longer than necessary. Yet this drawer drowning in paperwork. It makes sense in a way, I suppose. There has been a lot going on recently. But still, this does seem a little excessive.

I might have let it go though, if not for the fact that I recognise the name of the second file all too well.

 _Tanner, William_.

Frowning I stare at the file. True, Tanner's killer hasn't been caught yet, but it's been weeks since he died. There have been no new leads or developments, so there's really no reason for mom to keep the file here. I pull out the next file.  _Westron, Tara_. And the next. And the next.

 _Hart, Simon._   _Kerrington, Lukas_.  _Fenton, Brooke. Malloy, Darren_.

All of them names I recognise. All of them have died within the last three months. But none of this makes sense. For one, what the hell are Westron's, Hart's and Kerrington's files doing here? I know those cases, they were as open and shut as they come. Three drug addicts, having a party out in the woods that got out of control. There was nothing suspicious about those deaths, so what are they doing here?

Without really thinking about it, I pull my phone out again and take another picture. And another. And another.

Something isn't right here. It's not like Mom to waste time on closed cases, and it's even more unlike her not to tell me if something bugged her about them. Hell, Vicky's disappearance is the first time  _ever_  that she's forbidden me to investigate at all, and while I haven't thought much about it before, looking down at this odd collection of files, I find it hard to believe that this is a coincidence.

It seems that Gilbert's case is going to be much more trouble than I've anticipated. But then, I should have expected nothing less. It's the Gilbert's we're talking about after all.

#

Three hours. I've spent three hours combing through every last page of Vicky Donovan's file and I have exactly nothing to show for. It's not that there isn't any information. I'm actually pretty sure Mom put more details into this than is strictly necessary. But the basics are all the same. Last anyone appears to have seen Vicky Donovan was at the Halloween party, after which she seems to have disappeared into thin air.

It's odd, how there are literally no traces at all. If Gilbert's statement is to be believed, Vicky came to say goodbye to him, apparently planning to run away. But why would Gilbert be the one person she told of her plans? She hasn't called in at the Grill, hasn't even told her own brother. And while it certainly matches the irresponsible impression I have of her, it's still strange that she's just gone like that. As far as Matt and the responding officers could tell, there wasn't even anything missing in her room. No clothes, no toothbrush, no make-up. And perhaps the most telling part: no money.

What sort of runaway leaves two hundred dollars behind in their night table?

Truthfully, the more I read through the notes, the better I understand why Mom doesn't want me near this case. There's no proof, of course, only a certain suspicion, but this looks less like a runaway and more like a  _complete_  disappearance. In fact, the only thing casting doubt on a much less happy alternative is Gilbert's word.

Of course, I'm not going to tell him any of this. Not yet at least. Not until I have something more concrete. My gaze unwillingly turns to the next page of my note book. A page that is completely empty, except for seven names.

The owners of all of whom are dead.

It could be a coincidence. The deaths. My mom's unusual behaviour. Vicky's disappearance. It's entirely possible that none of these events are connected, that I'm jumping to conclusions. See shadows where there are none. It's entirely possible.

It's also entirely possible that they are connected. And frankly, it's been a long time since I've last believed in coincidences.

#

 **[**  Mystic Falls Wednesday4th of November, 2009 Mystic Grill  **]**

When you want more information on a crime, there are two ways of going about it. One is getting your hands on the data the police has acquired. But that only makes you as informed as any officer working the case, and when they haven't cracked it yet and you are no Sherlock Holmes wunderkind, chances are you won't do it either. The second option is to get information straight from the source. In this case, get the kind of stories one might be hesitant to tell the police—or simply not consider relevant.

In other words, you go to Mystic High's uncrowned gossip queen.

It just so happens that, as a social outcast, my contacts within the popular crowd are limited. Gilbert is unlikely to be of much help in that regard, considering his mental breakdown after the loss of his parents, and I'd rather push a blunt piece of wood straight through my heart than ask my former friends for help. Luckily, being a hobby detective means I do have a pretty colourful bunch of people who owe me a favour—and even more who'd do anything to ensure I don't share what I know with the rest of the world.

Dana Grant happens to be both.

[DG: Parents divorced. No siblings. Ex-girlfriend of BF. Plays four instruments.]

"I had a feeling you'd be here," I comment absently as I slide into the empty booth across from her. Social butterflies aren't hard to find in this town, there's really only the Grill and whatever place a party is currently held at to spend your free time. Considering it's Wednesday right after school, the Grill seemed like the best guess.

Dana apparently doesn't agree, if her startled expression is anything to go by. That girl really needs to learn to pay more attention to her surroundings. Her obliviousness provides me with a chance to observer her for a moment. She's cut her hair recently, the unruly, black waves only just brush past her shoulders now. She's a little pale too, and the small furrow between her brows speaks of stress and aggravation. Interesting.

Unsurprisingly, as soon as she recognises me, her pretty face darkens. It's not a very encouraging reaction, but I suppose I can't blame her. People hardly ever appreciate the beauty of blackmail, once they find themselves at the receiving end of it.

"What do you want now?" she groans.

I steal her banana milkshake in response and take a sip.

"Hey!" Dana protests, but only reaches half-heartedly for her drink. Maybe she's getting used to my antics. Hm. That would be a pity.

"Tell me about Vicky Donovan," I demand and take another obnoxious slurp.

Dana glares, her brown eyes narrowing. "That's my shake!"

I raise my eyebrows at her. The glare deepens. Its effect is lessened somewhat by Dana crossing her arms in front of her chest defensively. The picture she presents oddly reminiscent of a pouting child.

"Fine!" she snaps after another moment of our silent glaring contest passes. It's a contest I win every time. "What do you wanna know?"

Shrugging loosely, I tilt my head to one side. "Anything. Everything. You know, the usual."

The nice thing about Dana is that she is one of the few more genuine girls at my school. It makes her more predictable—and less likely to be confrontational. Sweet smiles and caring nature aside, she's also a lot more attentive than most people give her credit for. Had things gone differently, I might have liked to be friends with her.

Well, that's not quite true. Because Dana— Dana used to be my friend. Back when 'friends' was still a term I used to describe the people in my life. It was only natural, really. The two of us had a lot in common back then. Both of us were on the school committee, both of us liked to organise the balls and carnivals and all that other useless bullshit. Sitting here with her in a booth at the Grill feels almost painfully familiar, and  _yet_.

Things are also different now. The two of us are different. As much as I'd like to pretend otherwise, Dana hasn't been the girl that threw a soda in the face of a guy who laughed at me in a long time. Neither am I the girl that needs her to speak up for myself anymore.

"I dunno," Dana's voice thankfully interrupts my internal contemplations. "Everyone's saying that she slept with Jeremy for drugs, and there was this real ugly fight a couple weeks ago, when Tyler found out." She stares down at the table now, her brows furrowed in concentration. "Then, there's the rumour that the Major wasn't happy with his son's relationship. Some even say he forced her out of town, maybe even into a rehab centre or something."

"But you don't believe that." That much I can still tell from the unhappy curl of her lips.

Dana smiles wryly. "Major's never seemed like the type to care that much, as long as his son lives up to the legacy, you know?"

I take another sip from the drink to hide my grimace. Major Lockwood is a powerful man in this town, and nothing does he rule with a iron fist like his only heir's life. That doesn't excuse Tyler's grand A assholery though, not by a long shot.

"Anyways," Dana continues after a prolonged moment of awkward silence, "Seemed like she'd chosen Jeremy in the end. She even showed up with him in public at the party on Saturday. That was a shock, to say the least! I mean, sure, everyone knew there was something going on between those two, but I'd never thought Vicky would go public with a guy two years younger than her, you know?" Dana shakes her head a little in disbelief. "She looked better though, healthier. Makes me think she really did get clean this time."

"Hm." I hum non-committally. Vicky Donovan cleaning herself up? Not four days ago the mere thought would've sent me into hysterics. But maybe she really is trying to better her life. Maybe I'm not giving her enough credit.

"Not what you were looking for?" Dana guesses.

"I don't know." I push her milkshake back to her side of the table. "To be honest, I'm not sure what it is I'm looking for."

And with those words I rise, only to freeze half-way through, when a thought occurs to me. "You saw her?"

"What?"

"At the party," I specify. "Did you see Vicky at the party?"

"Obviously," Dana laughs a bit awkwardly. "Honestly? I'm pretty sure  _everyone_  noticed her. Her costume was fantastic. That, and she came with  _Jeremy_. I think we were all expecting a little more drama when Tyler noticed them, but they left so quickly, it never really got to that point."

I nod thoughtfully. Very interesting indeed. Maybe this meeting hasn't been a total waste of time after all.

"Hey, Veronica?" At the sound of my name I turn back towards Dana, who's looking at me with an unreadable expression. "Do you think we could maybe…hang out, sometime?" Then, even quieter, staring down at her hands instead of me, "I miss you."

She is fiddling nervously with the silver bracelet around her wrist. It's the bracelet I gave her to her fifteenth birthday.

 _"Forget it? How can I just forget it? I let this happen,_ we _let this happen! This is our fault! And you want to, what, let him get away with it?"_

I swallow and look away.

"Yeah, I'm-" I clear my throat. "I'm pretty busy at the moment, actually."

"Oh." Dana smiles, a sad, withering, little thing. "Of course. Another time then."

"Another time," I confirm with a sharp nod.

It's a lie, and we both know it.

#

Hiding in the toilet for twenty minutes until I'm sure Dana has left isn't a very mature thing to do, but right now I couldn't care less. Once I've confirmed that she's really gone, I walk straight towards the bar and order a shot of cinnamon tequila. It's a cliché and reckless on top of that, and I don't fucking care.

I tell the barkeeper as much when he eyes me doubtfully. It's fair, I guess. I'm demanding he hand out alcohol to a cop's underage daughter. Of course, I also found a way to prove he hadn't committed a hit and run a couple of months ago—and considering I had to visit four strip clubs to find the correct Amber who could ID him, he owes me more than just one shot, and he  _knows_  it.

"What's a beautiful girl like you doing here, drinking on her own in the middle of the afternoon?" an unfamiliar voice to my left speaks up.

When I turn my head, I come face to face with a handsome stranger at least five years too old to be talking to me.

"That's a lame line if I've ever heard one," I comment drily as I take his appearance in. The man is not much taller than me, but there is something imposing about the way he holds himself. Like a lazy predator regarding a clumsy kitten. Coupled with the dark leather jacket, ink black hair and unusually bright, blue eyes, he's the posture boy for Disney's patented Bad Boy™ look. He looks also vaguely familiar, like someone I've shaken hands with at some point during a forgettable ball and never looked back to again.

"Feisty, I like it," the guy chuckles and holds out his hand. "I'm Damon."

Of course. The infamous Damon Salvatore, I've heard far too much of already, none of it good. I suppose the only true miracle is that I've managed to avoid running into him for so long.

[DS: Member of a Founding Family. One younger brother SS. Rumoured player. Added note: Arrogant asshole.]

I eye his outstretched hand for a moment, but make no move to reach for it. "I'm not impressed," I reply and knock back my shot instead. Then I turn on my heels and leave the Grill in quick, determined strides.

**End of Chapter II**


	3. V is for Venom

_When your past calls, don't answer. It has nothing new to say._

_—_ Unknown

* * *

 **[** Mystic Falls Thursday 5th of November, 2009 The Gilbert's backyard **]**

"This is ridiculous," Gilbert mutters as he pulls a stray leaf out of his hair.

It's his fourth complaint in as many minutes. I don't even bother looking up from my notebook anymore. "You were the one who insisted we can't meet at your home," I remind him — also for the fourth time. It's not like I enjoy crawling around the bushes in the back of the Gilberts' garden any more than he does, thank you very much. Although I have to admit that there is a certain thrill to sneaking around, especially considering I know how much Elena will flip once she inevitably finds out what's going on.

That's the first rule of the detective business: There is no such thing as secrets. It's just a matter of finding the information one needs.

"We could've met at your home!" Gilbert continues to whine.

That comment, at last, earns him a blank stare. "You won't set a foot in my home ever again!" I say after a moment with more vehemence than is perhaps necessary. "Over my dead body."

"Alright, alright, jeez." Gilbert backs off, apparently realising he has crossed a line. "But can we at least get done with this? I swear there's something crawling up my leg!"

"Whatever, princess." I slam the notebook shut. "Not like I wouldn't have been done with this half an hour ago if you hadn't been so busy throwing a tantrum."

"Does that mean you found Vicky?" Gilbert visibly perks up at the thought.

"No." Alright, maybe I take a little more relish in bursting his bubble than what would be considered professional. But that's nobody's business but my own. "I need to ask you some more questions about the day she disappeared."

"Why?" Gilbert asks, running a hand through his shaggy hair. He desperately needs a new hair cut.

"You desperately need a new hair cut."

He blinks. "What?"

"Never mind," I hastily move on, not sure why I've even made that comment. "The important thing is, Donovan's car was still at her home, but she had to get out of town somehow. Since you were apparently the last person to see her, I figured, maybe you saw her talking with someone before or after she broke up with you."

Gilbert frowns. "I can't think of anyone."

Well. It was worth a try.

"Where did she break up with you anyways? You two went to the Halloween party together, right?" That at least a few dozen people can confirm. Dana wasn't kidding when she said everyone had noticed the two of them.

"I think so?" Gilbert says, but it sounds more like a question than a statement.

"What do you mean, you think so?"

"We weren't planning to go together," Gilbert clarifies with a frown. "I hadn't seen Vicky in a couple of days, she was— off. And then she just showed up at the party out of nowhere, and well. You know the rest." He shrugs.

That certainly sounds a lot more like the Vicky Donovan I remember. "Where did she break up with you?" is my next question, because this is important. It'll be so much easier to re-trace her steps once I know where she went missing exactly.

The furrow between Gilbert's eyebrows deepens. "I- At my home- I guess?"

"She walked all the way back with you just to break it off?" I don't even try to keep the incredulity out of my voice.

"No." Gilbert shakes his head, "I don't think so. So I guess it was at the party after all." He doesn't sound sure though, not at all.

Gilbert's entire face darkens when I tell him as much. To his credit, he only hesitates for a second before he answers. "The memory's a little hazy," he admits. "I wasn't in such a good shape, at first. But it's for the best, I know that now. I want Vicky to be happy, and she couldn't be that here."

The words are filled with heart-felt conviction. "You really believe that," I can't help but state, not sure why the revelation surprises me as much as it does. Gilbert doesn't deny it.

"What were you anyways?" I pointedly try to disrupt the suddenly oh so heavy air surrounding us. But once again, all I get in response is a questioning look. "At the party," I add. "What costume did you wear?"

A shrug.

"Didn't you guys have a partner look or something?"

Gilbert shakes his head. "Like I said, it was pretty last minute. By the time Vicky decided to go, the party had already started, I just went there to meet her."

"Not that you looked out of place with your emo look." I snort, and just like that we are back to angry glares and aggressive huffs.

"Are we done here?" Gilbert doesn't even wait for an answer. Of course his exit would have looked a lot more dramatic if he didn't have to crawl on all fours between two thick bushes.

#

 **[** Mystic Falls Friday 6th of November, 2009 Mystic High Hallway **]**

"Hi Chris," I greet the spacey junior with unruly, red locks and an endless amount of freckles with a friendly smile. Chris is a nice guy. A little shy and more often hiding behind a camera, but sweet all the same. He's the kind of guy you can't help but adopt into your life once you've met him, like a stray puppy who's life you've saved once, and who'll now always welcome you back again.

In my case, I retrieved some less than innocent pictures that would have outed Chris and his long-term boyfriend Chad Brodley — and also ensured that the third party knew better than to open their far too big mouth. Which basically amounts to saving his life, as far as Chris is concerned.

Or at least I assume that's the reason his entire face lights up every time he sees me. It's actually a very disconcerting experience. People aren't usually happy when I'm around. People who aren't Chris, at least.

"Veronica!" His grin is so broad it looks almost painful. "How can I help you today?"

I can't help but chuckle at his enthusiasm. "Maybe I just wanted to catch up with an old friend."

"Please," Chris shakes his head in amusement and gently closes his locker. "You never just want to catch up with anyone, Veronica."

It's not an accusation, but I can feel my good mood dimming all the same. It's rare for me to regret the way I've scorned the other students — I've had my reasons after all — but despite everything, it's not easy to be cast away. Losing friendships hurts. You can't burn down a bridge without getting burnt.

"You know me too well," I reply light-heartedly, in spite of the dark turn my mind has taken. "I was actually wondering whether you were at the Halloween party last weekend."

"'Course I was!" Chris' answer isn't surprising in the slightest. For such a quiet boy, he's incredibly drawn to social outings of any kind. "You really missed out on that one, it was great! Marie, Zack and Dana really outdid themselves with the decoration!"

And just like that he's off, babbling about the different variations of fake blood, lighting and music choices. It's not fair to Chris in any way, but this is another reason why I keep my distance from him more often than not. He's just so— passionate. It's an admirable quality, and beautiful to watch, don't get me wrong, but it's also a constant reminder of the things my life lacks.

I don't have a passion like that. Even if I had one I wouldn't know because I can't shut my mind off. I can't stop logic and realism from dampening the joy I feel, no matter the reason. And seeing it in another person so freely isn't easy.

"Sounds amazing," I interrupt Chris' description of the Halloween-themed food. "Did you per chance take any pictures?"

He snorts, like he can't believe I even have to ask. "'Course I did!"

To be fair, anyone who knows Chris would consider this a silly question. The guy takes pictures of everything, always.

"I thought so. Could you do me a favour and send me some copies?"

"'Course." Chris shrugs. God, I always forget how good his eagerness to help feels. "Any particular reason?"

"It's for a case." I see no reason to lie. "You still got my email right? If you could just mail them to me, I'd really appreciate it. They could be a big help."

"Hey." Chris gently squeezes my arm. "You got it. Don't have to convince me, Veronica. Whatever you want. You know I'm always happy to help you out."

I pull out of his grip almost immediately, but the soft "Thanks," is as genuine as it gets these days. With how bright Chris smiles in response, I think he knows that too.

#

Unfortunately, my brief but fruitful encounter with Chris is the only bright spot on a rapidly darkening day. I'm not even sure why the sudden influx of bad luck catches me as off-guard as it does, "lucky" has never been an adjective I've associated with myself.

Maybe I just— thought the fact that Jeremy Gilbert had sought me out would mean something. Would change something. Maybe I just let myself be lured into a false sense of security. Or maybe the universe simply decided I was in need of another reminder of the unshakeable truth: Nothing has changed. The world isn't magically a better place than it was yesterday. And, perhaps more importantly, neither am I a better person.

It starts with a French test I completely forgot to prepare for. Which sucks, but is more or less just an annoyance. The trend continues at lunch, where my favourite hoodie loses a spectacular fight against a freshman's Capri-Sun. At least I don't end up as the laughing stock of the entire cafeteria, those days are well and truly over. Very few people dare to laugh at my misfortune in front of me anymore. And I'm even inclined to believe that the whole thing really was an accident — the girl almost _cried_ — but that doesn't make my hoodie any less sticky.

In other words, by the time sixth period rolls around, I'm already so far past done with this day, it's not even funny anymore. Which is of course when I run into The Guy I Love To Hate. Because apparently this is exactly the kind of cheap drama show my life has turned into.

"I hate my life," I announce calmly as I stare up into all too familiar, dark eyes that are always a little too wild for my comfort. Not that I'd admit as much, least of all to the most pretentious of all football players, Tyler Lockwood himself.

Some days the hallways of this high school simply aren't wide enough, and that's a fact.

"Are you stalking me or something, Forbes?" Lockwood sneers when our gazes lock. Truthfully he looks about as happy as I'm currently feeling — and like he's itching for a fight.

"We go to the same school, genius!" I, well-adjusted, emotionally balanced person that I am, snarl right back. "But sure, it's all about you, isn't it, Lockwood?"

Maybe we both have a bad day or maybe it's just that we've always understood each other a little too well, get a little too deep under the other's skin. But as I watch Lockwood's former smile twist into an ugly expression of pure disgust, I know this confrontation won't end well. For either of us.

" _You_ of all people think you get to give me shit about self-importance?" he spits, dark eyes incited with murderous rage. He's stepping closer, until his shoes almost touch my toes, a wall of hateful fury staring down at me. "Shut your hypocritical mouth before I do it for you, Forbes!" he hisses between clenched teeth.

I can feel my heart pounding painfully in my chest, but I refuse to show this despicable bastard something as empowering as fear. I push Lockwood instead, as hard as I'm able to — and isn't it frustrating that he barely stumbles back?

"Get out of my face!" I'm distinctly aware of the crowd forming around us, but most of my attention is fixated on Tyler Lockwood. The faint trembling of his body, the hard gaze locked onto me, the baring of teeth that could never count as a smile. "I don't know what your fucking problem is, but I'm not the punching bag you get to hit every time you're feeling down! Now leave me the fuck alone, Lockwood, because I'm tired of putting up with your shit!"

I try to walk away, like I should have done right from the start, instead of engaging Tyler and egging him on. But of course he always has to have the last word, and when he speaks again, his words freeze something deep inside me that I didn't even know could still be touched.

"Go on then, run away!" he yells. "That's all you ever do anyways, isn't it? You like to pretend you're so tough, but you aren't fooling anyone, _Nika_. You aren't some slighted heroine, you're no better than the rest of us! You're just a fucking coward! So run along, keep playing the hapless victim all you want! But stop blaming me for everything that's wrong in your life!"

The hallway, though filled with people, is dead silent. Or maybe it isn't. Maybe I just can't hear the laughter, the clapping, the tittering, over the rushing sound that fills my ears.

_"C'mon, man. The party's downstairs."_

_"What? You got somethin' to say?"_

_"At least I didn't stay to watch!"_

"And yet," I whisper, once I remember how to make use of my vocal chords again, barely even recognising my own voice, "it's still all about you, _Ty-Ty_."

It's the first time I've said that name in months. I like to think it's because that boy died the day he told his friends I was nothing but a lying bitch, crying for attention. But the truth is, I'm not sure what happened to that boy, and I'm not even sure I care. I don't _want_ to care. Because I can barely live with the knowledge of what happened to the girl that used to jump on his back out of nowhere, giggling like a gleeful maniac.

I crack a smile then, one that is nothing more than a hollowed shell, at the memory, at the thought of everything that went wrong with us, at this entire situation.

" _Isn't it?_ "

When I walk away from Tyler this time, it doesn't feel like an exit. It doesn't feel like a dismissal and it certainly doesn't feel like a victory. It feels like stumbling through a foggy world in a trance, body moving on it's own accord, mind empty and desolate. Like a tranquilliser is slowly spreading through my bloodstream, numbing whatever emotions I might have felt otherwise.

I barely register the crowd parting before me, barely even take in Dana's wide eyes when I meet her gaze over the heads of our pathetically eager audience for a second.

" _Say something_!" I want to ask her, beg her. " _Please, for the love of all that is holy, say something!_ " Right now I want to be that girl, the girl I used to be. The girl that relied too heavily on her friends. The girl that put too much trust into others watching her back for her. I hate that girl, despise her, and more than anything else I hate myself for yearning for her all the same.

Then Dana averts her eyes and the moment breaks, leaving nothing but cutting _What If_ 's and missed opportunities in its wake.

#

 **[** Mystic Falls 6th of November, 2009 Mystic Grill **]**

I gesture for the barkeeper to get me another drink.

"You sure?" he asks sceptically, but sets another glass filled with some ghastly pink liquid down in front of me all the same.

"Trust me, I've never been so sure of something in my life." I send him a humourless grin. Toby. His name's Toby. I should probably remember that.

Toby leans against the bar, a move that looks far too cool for a guy who's wearing too much eye-liner and a towel over his shoulder. He takes his sweet time looking me up and down, and though I do my best not to show it, his scrutiny makes me uncomfortable.

"Drinking isn't gonna fix anything, you know that, right?"

"I wasn't aware I'd asked for your opinion," I counter sharply. The judgement in his tone rubs me the wrong way. After today's disastrous turnout a wise-ass stranger criticising my life choices is the absolute last thing I need.

"Easy." The barkeeper lifts his hands placatingly, but it makes me feel less calm and more like I'm being patronised. And I'm so damn done with being patted on the head and told to go play with the other kids. "Just making an observation."

"Well, keep it to your-fucking-self!" I spit, fingers curling so tightly around the frail cocktail glass, I wonder how much pressure it would take for the stupid thing to break. It's unfair to take my bad mood out on this guy, I'm distinctly aware of that. Right now though I really couldn't care less.

"You heard the lady," another male cuts in before Toby gets another word in, effectively dismissing the guy.

I turn on my barstool to get a better view of my unexpected company and promptly overbalance. Luckily my unexpected — and unwanted — companion manages to steady me before I slip off the bar stool and crack my head open on the floor. A prospect that, though appealing in my current mindset, wouldn't improve my day in the long run.

"Don't touch me!" I mutter crossly, though I'm careful to place both hands on the bar in front of me to keep my balance before I shake his hold off. Once I'm sure I won't fall again, I tilt my head sideways and make a show of squinting at the guy, trying to place his face. "…Damon.," I add after an awkwardly long pause.

Salvatore smirks in response, though it doesn't seem to be a very happy expression. Of course with the kind of face he wears, he probably isn't used to people forgetting who he is. Not that I have, not really. It's a very pretty face after all.

"Don't worry." His smirk sharpens. "I only touch girls when they ask very nicely."

I'm not sure if I believe him or not, but frankly I don't care much either way. There's a reason I carry a taser with me wherever I go. So instead I chose the safer option and turn my attention back towards my neglected drink. It looks about as unnatural as a beverage is capable of, which is one of the reasons I like it so much.

"You're not much of a talker, are you?" Salvatore asks when it becomes clear I don't have any intention of keeping the conversation up and running.

"A real life Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?" I take a sip.

"Mouthy too."

I snort. "Trust me, Blue eyes, you've seen nothing yet."

"Oh?" Salvatore raises a single brow at me. Instead of picking up on the very obvious fuck-off vibes I'm giving off, he seems to be almost— entertained by my attitude. The bastard.

"Ask around." And yes, there is definitely some bitterness seeping into my words, no matter how much I'd like to pretend otherwise — because you never fully stop caring about what other people say behind your back — "This is as polite as I get."

I take another gulp of my drink, mostly just so I have something to do with my hands. The liquid tastes sweet, too sweet, really. Diluted. I set the glass down again very slowly. That bastard's given me a _virgin_ drink. And made me pay the full price.

 _Congrats, Toby_. _You've picked the worst possible day to mess with me. You are officially on the list._

"Now, not to be a complete bitch but kindly fuck off, if you please." I glare at the barkeeper's back. "I'm planning a very bloody, violent murder, and I don't need any more witnesses than necessary."

That actually earns me a low laugh from Salvatore, who's nursing his own drink and looking like he has no intention of going anywhere any time soon. Which isn't the reaction I was looking for and he damn well knows it.

"See, I simply can't do that," he explains in a mock-serious tone. "Not when you're clearly the most interesting person in this room."

"Oh? And why is that?" I ask with exaggeratedly faked fascination, even though the moment the words leave my lips, I already regret them. Engaging Salvatore like this is only going to encourage him. I really should know better. Damn it, I _do_ know better.

"Nah," Salvatore clicks his tongue. "Don't come fishing for compliments now, Blondie. You're ruining it."

"I'm sorry to disappoint, but I don't live to amuse you." I slip from my chair, slowly and controlled this time. "I didn't ask you to join me and frankly, I'm not in the mood. Whatever it is you want, you'll have to creep on some other poor girl. I've got better things to do."

Like wallowing in self-pity for example. But of course even that I can't be allowed to do so in peace. God forbid Veronica Forbes would get a moment to herself. Just one moment that's free of the constant judgement every single person in this town bestows on me. What sort of insane world would that be? Heck, it might even help me become a more level-headed, balanced human being, but no. Since when has anyone in my life ever cared about my well-being?

 _Go on then, run away!_ Tyler's cold words echo in my head. _That's all you ever do anyways!_

They burn, uncomfortable but not unbearable. It hurts because these words touch the mess of unresolved hatred, shame and guilt I keep locked away. Carefully collected and sorted, like a storage for dire times. It hurts because, as much as I would like to deny it, Tyler is right. I am a coward. I am the worst kind of coward.

But he is also wrong.

That's the one thing, the only redeeming action in that dark period of my life, that I still hold on to. Because I didn't run away. I didn't hide the truth. I didn't put a fake smile on and kept up the pretence. Unlike a certain someone, I refused to play along with their perfect, little world, where bad stuff only happens to bad people and justice is more than a pretty word. That excuse, of not knowing, of never once suspecting, of never having seen any sign beforehand? The students at my school don't have that.

And one day, when the ugly truth catches up with them, I hope they will remember me. I hope the knowledge of what they have done will _ruin_ them _forever_.

A hand around my wrist disrupts my venomous thoughts and brings me back to the present, where, apparently, Damon Salvatore has seen it fit to take a hold of me. The kick against his shin is pure reflex. Even that isn't enough to get rid of the amusement in his eyes though.

I've got to hand it to the guy, Damon really has beautiful eyes. But even the bright shade of blue, glittering like the far-away sea, can't hide the glacial coldness they hold. It's almost a shame really. Had I been three years older and Damon been genuinely interested, maybe we could have had something. He's the kind of guy I could have crushed on, that's for sure.

As it is, I'm underage and Damon holds enough ice in his heart not to care. And none of it matters, because I don't get involved with lost causes. That's how you keep yourself whole.

"You really need to learn to take a hint, Salvatore." My voice is remarkably steady. Maybe I shouldn't have laughed until tears were running down my face when my father's boyfriend suggested acting classes.

Damon Salvatore tilts his head like a curious bird. A curious bird with a razor-sharp smile and words that cut deeper than any knife can possibly get. The laser-like single-mindedness could be flattering, if it wasn't so damn uncomfortable. Yes, this is one man's attention I can do without.

"What can I say?" Salvatore smiles, wide and pleased and charming. It's the kind of smile you could become addicted to. And that's the problem, isn't it? "I'm a slow learner."

"You're certainly a slow something," I snipe back and take another step towards the exit. As amusing as this banter is, I don't feel comfortable with the way Salvatore is watching me. Especially not right now, with the memories so close to the surface.

The loud background music, the laughter of the other patrons, the taste of fried chips in the air and sticky, sweet alcohol on my tongue, make me feel dizzy. Dizzy and trapped. If I close my eyes for a moment, it's all too easy to imagine I'm back there. At the packed Lockwood manor, pushing my way through the crowd and trying not to spill the drinks I'm carrying. A hand on my shoulder, halting my progress. Just for a moment. A long moment.

I blink and I'm back. Back at the Grill, where people may lie to my face and laugh behind my back, but at least I'm out in the open. I'm safe. I wish my heart would get the message because right now it's racing in my chest, so hard, I'm afraid it's gonna give out any moment. I try to keep my breathing under control, to keep it together, but Damon Salvatore's hand is holding my forearm in a tight grip. Which really doesn't help matters.

Salvatore may not be the worst kind of predator out there, but right now, with his sharp eyes and unrelenting grip, he's close enough.

"Let me go." The words come out breathless, but the rage underneath is real. I'm not afraid. I refuse to be afraid. Being angry is so much easier.

Of course Salvatore doesn't listen. I don't know why I'm surprised. This guy sets my creep-radar off every time he so much as breathes.

"Hey," Salvatore says, quietly, and I reflexively look up from where I've been glaring at his hold on my arm to meet his eyes. "Calm down. Let's get you another drink. After all, you'd love to have me all to yourself tonight." The last part is said with a smirk a little too dangerous to count as teasing. It's also enough to snap me out of my funk.

For the record, I hate to be told what I want. Despise it.

"First, don't you _ever_ tell me what to do or feel!" I can't even say the words normally, end up hissing them like a pissed off cat instead. "Second, the next time you conveniently ignore my _No_ , I'm getting a restraining order. Now, I'm gonna leave and you're gonna fuck off and bother someone else, got it?"

Seeing the stunned look on Salvatore's face is worth the attention my outburst has undoubtedly drawn. Stalking out of the Grill with a confidence I don't feel and having absolutely no one stop me or even slow me down? That feels pretty good too.

#

Since the Grill couldn't offer me the peace and quiet away from life I'm seeking, I decide I might as well put on my big girl panties and face reality head on. Today that means coming home at 9pm to a dark house — no doubt mom is pulling overtime again, brooding over files that hold too much data and not enough answers — and spending my Friday night in my room. On my computer.

What can I say? I lead an exciting life.

A quick check of my inbox proves that Chris has already sent me the pictures I asked for. No surprise there. Chris is so eager and helpful, it almost makes me uncomfortable. He also uses a lot of smileys in his messages.

One of the reasons I'm so thankful for my acquaintance with Chris is that he really knows what he's doing when it comes to taking pictures. I'm decent enough with a camera to collect evidence of a cheating boyfriend, but that's it. Chris doesn't just take a picture. He _makes_ a picture. Even with the sub-optimal conditions of a Halloween party with terrible lighting and constant flashes, the difference is stunning. Most of his shots are clear and sharp. Faces, costumes, decoration, couples making out. Chris has captured it all.

Staring at pictures of my school mates drinking, embarrassing themselves and generally having a great time, I can easily see the scene before me, as though I was really there. Parties like these, they're always the same. And shit but Chris doesn't pull his punches with these photos. He really has sent me everything. As I'm clicking through the pictures, I see more of certain students than I ever wanted to see. And who knew that Lacy and Gia were that close?

Very useful blackmail material aside though, it doesn't seem like I'm gonna find the answers to Vicky's whereabouts in these pictures. So far I haven't found a single one of her. Which is a shame, but it was a long shot. I've known that from the get-go.

_Wait a second—_

I freeze, suppress the habitual click to the next picture. Go one back instead. It's a shot of a couple's very heated make-out session — and really, I'm gonna have a talk with Chris about keeping it PG one of these days — but in the background is Jeremy Gilbert. He's slightly out of focus, but it's definitely him. He's leaning against a wall, an odd expression on his face. There are dark stains on his white shirt, the reason he stands out so much, and his mouth is half-opened in a very unattractive way. Definitely an unfortunate angle.

I can't make out Vicky in any of the shapes near him though. Gilbert told me that he hadn't heard from Vicky in days, that they hadn't planned to come to the party. This shot must have been taken before she arrived. Would explain why he's lounging in the back too, probably sulking. A look at the time stamp tells me the photo's been taking at 10:48:23, a long time before the cops decided to break up the party.

Sadly that doesn't put me any closer to finding Vicky Donovan. On the bright side, I still have 746 photos to go through.

Lucky me.

#

It only takes me three hours, two cups of coffee and an entire pack of gummy worms to find her. Despite Chris' obsession to capture every moment of the party, there are only five pictures of Vicky. I've printed them out and spent the last half an hour staring at them. Waiting for them to tell me something I don't already know.

So far, the photos have kept their secrets to themselves.

I sigh. Stare down at a pretty face that looks older than she actually is. Looking down at these pictures, the ones _before_ , when everything still appears so damningly normal and none of the friends and family yet suspect what soon will happen, always sends a cold chill down my back.

Vicky Donovan pulling Jeremy Gilbert through the crowd. Click.

Vicky Donovan kissing Jeremy Gilbert. Click.

Vicky Donovan reaching for a cup of cheap beer. Click.

Vicky Donovan smiling at something the camera hasn't captured. Click.

Vicky Donovan rolling her eyes and giving the camera the bird. Click.

Vicky Donovan, live and in colour. A mere two hours before she disappeared of the face of the earth.

But whatever answers I've hoped to find in tracing Vicky's last few hours here in Mystic Falls, they continue to stubbornly elude me. The only thing I have actually learned is that Chris was right: Vicky's costume was fantastic. That or the step from junkie to vampire is a lot smaller and more natural than I previously thought.

The thought shouldn't make me grin, but it's not like anyone's around to watch and judge.

With a deep sigh, I stretch my arms above my head to release some of the tension in my back. Then I collect the photos and put them into the small file labelled _French Essays 07/08_ in my bookcase, where I keep all the details about the cases mom should never learn of.

At least tonight wasn't a total loss. Even if the most interesting tidbit hasn't been in any of the pictures involving Vicky at all. It's a snapshot of a group of cheerleaders laughing as some guy balances a red plastic cup of beer on his head. To the left, there is one third of Elena Gilbert, apparently arguing with three thirds of Damon Salvatore visible.

Damon Salvatore. At a high school party. Now, I haven't been part of that scene in a while, but if there's one thing I know for certain that men older than twenty don't make it a habit to hang around high schoolers. Certainly not good-looking men like Damon Salvatore. He seems like a sleazy asshole, sure, but even sleazy assholes tend to prefer college parties. For many, obvious reasons.

Of course, there might be a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why Damon Salvatore is there. Maybe he brought Stefan. Who drives his own car. Maybe Stefan called him because he drank something and was being responsible. Right. Calling the brother he can't stand if the rumour mill is to be trusted. Sure. Maybe Elena Gilbert has a thing for her boyfriend's older brother.

Okay, that thought is enough to crack me up. Saintly Elena two-timing two brothers? It'd be more likely for me to have a following of adoring fans, eager to fulfil my every wish.

Whatever, I'm getting off topic. The point is, Damon Salvatore seems like the kind of asshole Vicky could've made a deal with. She had to get out of town somehow after all. And I've heard Salvatore has a sweet ride.

It's a good thing, I suppose, that I've been making friends with Salvatore since we've started running into each other. I'm sure he'll just fall over himself to tell me everything I want to know. Out of the goodness of his pure, white heart.

 _Yeah_. That sounds about right.

For the record, that lovely lady karma? Not a fan of her.

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**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this story! If you have the time, I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments!


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